Page 75 of Into the Storm

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N

She turned the page on its side, and the stacked symbols transformed.

Z ? ? ?

“He went to some effort to make sure it wasn’t obvious it says Z-D-3-0.”

“Zero Dark Thirty doesn’t always mean twelve thirty a.m.,” he pointed out. “It’s really any time after midnight.”

“But what is the time most frequently suggested?”

“Good point. He’s not aiming for obscure. So he’s telling us when he’s going to create a diversion from the inside—set off explosives on the second-floor library and in the dining room—and we can slip in through a side door while the mercs are scrambling and seize the lodge.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I think he’s telling us.”

He glanced at his watch. It was after nine. They had three hours to find the SEALs and get into position to make this work. “We just need to know where the team is.”

“Not to worry. George tells us right here where they are.” She tapped another drawing, the last ones at the bottom of the page. He could hear the excitement in her voice. The elation. She was enjoying this moment. But then, so was he.

George was a damned miracle.

Or would be, as long as he was able to slip into the lodge as planned.

“Where are they?”

“See this drawing? It’s a famous petroglyph on Vancouver Island. Well, the head of one. Not the whole body, or it would be obvious to anyone who looked it’s a representation of a seal. George is being careful, and he knows I’ll recognize it.”

“Okay, a seal symbol makes sense, but why the donkey?” It wasn’t even a petroglyph-style donkey like the other line drawings. No, this one looked like Eeyore, and it had the number “277” written on the animal’s rear.

Even in dim light, her grin was radiant. “George is fucking brilliant.” She tapped the number. “That’s the archaeological site number of an ancient, rusting steam donkey that’s about a mile from here. A left over from early twentieth-century logging. George is telling us the SEAL team is in the forest somewhere near the donkey.”